I haven't looked in a mirror in at least a week.
Okay, so maybe I've taken glimpses, here or there, but completely by accident. When I put my makeup on, I squint so I can't get the full effect. I take baths in the dark. I avoid the mirror like I avoid anyone who has a stomach virus. Or a cold.
I'm sure I have tremendous bags under my eyes. In fact, I know I do, because my husband took a picture of me yesterday and I had to use a filter to eliminate them.
This anxiety. I won't say it's killing me, because I pray that it's not, but its doing a darn good job of making me feel like it. If I go out, I'm wearing a hat to hide my worn face. But I rarely go out. I listen to church sermons online. The only thing I make myself do is play with my girls, and go to work. Only because we can't afford for me not to work and I will NOT let my girls suffer because of this terrible illness that has a GRIP on me.
This past week I had a HUGE setback. I'm trying to recover, and I'm thankful for the long weekend, so that I can nap when the girls nap.
I don't know what else to say. I'm so very tired of being so miserable, when the blessings of life surround me.
I only post this to help others who may be in my same position. Please do not judge. I'm doing the best I can.
Giving it all to Him, He who can heal me -
L.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Broken - But Beautiful
Those that know the dynamics of my family know that it is broken. I am divorced, my oldest child a gloriously wonderful product of that broken marriage. She is so glorious. And she is so wonderful. And I thank God for that marriage, because without it, I would not have her. And although she is becoming more and more "cantankerous," my love for her grows leaps and bounds...everyday.
Someone once told me that they did not know a child that came from a broken home, who was well adjusted. Ouch. That hurt. So, because of my and my ex-husbands problems, my child will be broken forever?
Nope. Don't think so.
Yes, I do worry about her and maybe, I do sometimes overcompensate.
But this child. She is something.
And God has great plans for her.
My "life coach" and I were talking today, about how scared I get when I'm alone with my girls...because, of course, when I'm alone with them is when something terrible will happen to me, and no one will be there to protect them. They will witness something horrible and then be alone without anyone to care for them for hours. And then they will be scarred for the rest of their lives. (A blog post about my intrusive thoughts will be posted later).
I told my coach about how this person mentioned that sweet girl would never be "quite right." She immediately disagreed. She then began to tell me that it was the broken that make something beautiful. It doesn't matter how you grow up. Whether you have two parents, or step-parents, or one parent, or are a foster child - Jesus uses the difficulties in your life for the good of His will.
YES.
Beauty from the ashes. I have always believed this, and will continue to look for it in my girls lives.
My sweet three year old has so much potential. I know that she will fill any void in her life with things that are beautiful and of the Lord. I will teach her to go to Scripture when she feels sadness or fear. I will let her know that God is the One to turn to when she is confused and needs answers. I will do my best to help her with her "worldly" problems, but there are questions that I will not be able to answer and feelings that I will not be able to feel for her. She will have to do it alone, with God.
Sweet M. will be well adjusted. She will walk out of this phase with the grace that the Lord gave her on that cross.
We are ALL broken in our own ways. Dirty, yucky, disgusting. But we are also beautiful. Beautiful children of the one who died for us. We are broken - but beautiful.
I can't say it enough - to Him, I am indebted forever.
Humbly His,
L.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
The Problem With Healing
It doesn't matter what disease/sickness you have. Cancer, Diabetes, even just your run of the mill Kidney Infection. Your body needs time to heal.
Sometimes you heal very quickly. Other times it takes awhile.
"He said to her "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from suffering."" - Mark 5:34
Oh, how I wish Jesus would speak these words to me. I wish He would knock on my door, dirty feet and long unwashed hair. I would invite Him in. I would lead him to my bar, serve him chilled water with fresh lemon and lime. I would pull out last nights leftovers and feed Him. And then I would beg Him. Beg Him to take away the suffering of the world. Beg Him to take the suffering away from my husband and daughters. Beg Him to take my suffering. Selfishly.
You see, this rut I'm in, you don't just heal "overnight." No, I can't take antibiotics, and no medication will help me. In fact, I'm trying to cleanse my body of all medications (except for my heart medication, which I will need for the rest of my life). And my poor husband.
Healing has affected every aspect of our relationship. He's been so patient and kind, holding my hand to get me through the hard times and taking over when I needed him to.
My girls don't see my suffering, but let's just be honest. They can sense it. I don't let them see my tears, I don't let them hear my cries. But I'm afraid that they know it's their and for that reason alone, I am so determined to HEAL.
My healing began at the beginning of June. From what I can tell, I am halfway there. I have more energy most days. I get more satisfaction out of work and I am learning that staying busy is the way to keep my focus off of feeling sick, and keeping my eyes on the bright days ahead. I will have setbacks, and I will have bad days.
But that's what FAITH is for. And one day, I know, He will come to me, and I like to think that He will say, "My beautiful princess, your faith has healed you. You will suffer no more." And though I do my best to rejoice in my suffering, I will rejoice in my peace! What a beautiful, beautiful day that will be.
Humbly His,
L.
Sometimes you heal very quickly. Other times it takes awhile.
"He said to her "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from suffering."" - Mark 5:34
Oh, how I wish Jesus would speak these words to me. I wish He would knock on my door, dirty feet and long unwashed hair. I would invite Him in. I would lead him to my bar, serve him chilled water with fresh lemon and lime. I would pull out last nights leftovers and feed Him. And then I would beg Him. Beg Him to take away the suffering of the world. Beg Him to take the suffering away from my husband and daughters. Beg Him to take my suffering. Selfishly.
You see, this rut I'm in, you don't just heal "overnight." No, I can't take antibiotics, and no medication will help me. In fact, I'm trying to cleanse my body of all medications (except for my heart medication, which I will need for the rest of my life). And my poor husband.
Healing has affected every aspect of our relationship. He's been so patient and kind, holding my hand to get me through the hard times and taking over when I needed him to.
My girls don't see my suffering, but let's just be honest. They can sense it. I don't let them see my tears, I don't let them hear my cries. But I'm afraid that they know it's their and for that reason alone, I am so determined to HEAL.
My healing began at the beginning of June. From what I can tell, I am halfway there. I have more energy most days. I get more satisfaction out of work and I am learning that staying busy is the way to keep my focus off of feeling sick, and keeping my eyes on the bright days ahead. I will have setbacks, and I will have bad days.
But that's what FAITH is for. And one day, I know, He will come to me, and I like to think that He will say, "My beautiful princess, your faith has healed you. You will suffer no more." And though I do my best to rejoice in my suffering, I will rejoice in my peace! What a beautiful, beautiful day that will be.
Humbly His,
L.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Robin Williams
What is mental illness?
A mental illness is a medical condition that disrupts a person's thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning. Just as diabetes is a disorder of the pancreas, mental illnesses are medical conditions that often result in a diminished capacity for coping with the ordinary demands of life.
Serious mental illnesses include major depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), panic disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and borderline personality disorder. The good news about mental illness is that recovery is possible.
Mental illnesses can affect persons of any age, race, religion or income. Mental illnesses are not the result of personal weakness, lack of character or poor upbringing. Mental illnesses are treatable. Most people diagnosed with a serious mental illness can experience relief from their symptoms by actively participating in an individual treatment plan. -
National Alliance on Mental Illness
I loved Robin Williams. One of the most inspiring movies to me is Dead Poets Society.
Brilliant. And who didn't love Mrs. Doubtfire? And Aladdin?
Robin Williams was absolutely a jack of all trades.
He was animated, hilarious, flamboyant, and also soft. You wanted to look into his world.
But what was happening behind his facade is nothing short of sadness. Pure, unequivocal sadness.
It's simply ironic that I start writing about my anxiety - my mental illness, and the whole world begins talking about mental illness. The suicide of this genius of a man brings the entire world to its knees, and the focus shifts from Ebola, the wars in Ukraine and the Gaza strip - to mental illness. Thank God. There could be no topic more important right now (except for the war in Israel, but my belief is that God has them in His hands and we should always back them - no matter what).
But mental illness. It's where our world is right now.
One of my very favorite authors, Ann Voskamp, wrote a fantastic blog on Christianity and suicide.
http://www.aholyexperience.com/2014/08/what-the-church-christians-need-to-know-about-suicide-mental-health/
If you don't know her, get acquainted. Buy her book(s). Follow her blog, daily. Follow her on Facebook. She is a beautiful soul, not like any of the prosperity gospels out there now.
Her blog on Christianity, mental illness, and suicide is more than I could possibly put into words. She graced her pages with words much more beautifully than I can.
But I digress.
If there ever was a time to become more familiar with mental illness, whether it be anxiety, depression, manic depression, PTSD...whatever, that time is now. A calling has been placed on our lives to reach out to those.To support. To love. And to just be more understanding.
And to those who struggle - we must take ownership of our quirks and our makeup. No, we are not lazy. We have our bad days (some worse than others) and we even have those days when its hard to get out of bed. We have days when its easier just to pull the cover back over our face and turn the alarm off. We have those nights when we lay on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and cry ourselves sleep.
We must make an effort to pull ourselves out of the muck, and as Ann Voskamp says, realize that grace covers all darkness. We may be destined for a life full of darkness, but only God's sweet, sweet grace will give us that light. And that light may only come when He reaches through the throes of this life and pulls us to the next one.
But that is His decision - when we should go. Although I will not condemn those who commit suicide and will not pass judgement on those who have contemplated taking their own lives, I will say that God is the one who makes that decision and we should seek every alternative to that finality.
It is time. To be more understanding. To love one another more, no matter what we are going through. To love THROUGH our faults and makeup. It is time to start standing up for those that struggle with mental illness day by day, instead of sweeping it under that pretty little rug you have on your front porch.
Robin Williams was a fantastic actor. Any one of us could be in his shoes at any time. It could hit you at 20, or it could wait until you're 65. Mental illness, like cancer, does not discriminate. Let go of the stigma and start grabbing hold of those who need you.
I will do the same.
Humbly His,
L.
He was animated, hilarious, flamboyant, and also soft. You wanted to look into his world.
But what was happening behind his facade is nothing short of sadness. Pure, unequivocal sadness.
It's simply ironic that I start writing about my anxiety - my mental illness, and the whole world begins talking about mental illness. The suicide of this genius of a man brings the entire world to its knees, and the focus shifts from Ebola, the wars in Ukraine and the Gaza strip - to mental illness. Thank God. There could be no topic more important right now (except for the war in Israel, but my belief is that God has them in His hands and we should always back them - no matter what).
But mental illness. It's where our world is right now.
One of my very favorite authors, Ann Voskamp, wrote a fantastic blog on Christianity and suicide.
http://www.aholyexperience.com/2014/08/what-the-church-christians-need-to-know-about-suicide-mental-health/
If you don't know her, get acquainted. Buy her book(s). Follow her blog, daily. Follow her on Facebook. She is a beautiful soul, not like any of the prosperity gospels out there now.
Her blog on Christianity, mental illness, and suicide is more than I could possibly put into words. She graced her pages with words much more beautifully than I can.
But I digress.
If there ever was a time to become more familiar with mental illness, whether it be anxiety, depression, manic depression, PTSD...whatever, that time is now. A calling has been placed on our lives to reach out to those.To support. To love. And to just be more understanding.
And to those who struggle - we must take ownership of our quirks and our makeup. No, we are not lazy. We have our bad days (some worse than others) and we even have those days when its hard to get out of bed. We have days when its easier just to pull the cover back over our face and turn the alarm off. We have those nights when we lay on the cold tile of the bathroom floor and cry ourselves sleep.
We must make an effort to pull ourselves out of the muck, and as Ann Voskamp says, realize that grace covers all darkness. We may be destined for a life full of darkness, but only God's sweet, sweet grace will give us that light. And that light may only come when He reaches through the throes of this life and pulls us to the next one.
But that is His decision - when we should go. Although I will not condemn those who commit suicide and will not pass judgement on those who have contemplated taking their own lives, I will say that God is the one who makes that decision and we should seek every alternative to that finality.
It is time. To be more understanding. To love one another more, no matter what we are going through. To love THROUGH our faults and makeup. It is time to start standing up for those that struggle with mental illness day by day, instead of sweeping it under that pretty little rug you have on your front porch.
Robin Williams was a fantastic actor. Any one of us could be in his shoes at any time. It could hit you at 20, or it could wait until you're 65. Mental illness, like cancer, does not discriminate. Let go of the stigma and start grabbing hold of those who need you.
I will do the same.
Humbly His,
L.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
It Is Time.
I had been working at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta for close to a year before my first, severe panic attack. Before that, I had done clinicals at a local hospital here in Augusta. They had all been on oncology/bone marrow transplant floors.
I have always had a passion for cancer patients. Cancer is an UGLY disease, and no one is immune. NO ONE.
I loved my patients...especially the Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT) patients. They would usually spend about 2-3 months in the hospital, receiving chemotherapy to knock out ALL of their cells (not only the cancer cells - because chemotherapy cannot identify a "good" cell versus a "bad" cell), receive their transplant (either an auto-from their own cells, or an allo -from sibling, or a MUD - an unrelated donor who had matched with them), and then the patient had to recover. Recovery was the most brutal part.
Think about it this way. You have absolutely no immune system left after the harsh chemotherapy. Many hosts of infection enter in your room each day, putting you at great risk, and you have absolutely no idea if the transplant is going to take, or if your body is going to reject it.
Rejection is the horrible part.
And for the faint of heart, you should probably stop reading here.
A patient who receives a MUD transplant is at the greatest risk of rejection. And they are all educated (somewhat) on what may or may not happen during the recovery phase. But what can really happen is something out of a horror story.
My very first patient that I saw reject a transplant stayed in the hospital for over 100 days. The first sign of his rejection was diarrhea - yellow, mushy and seedy. (I have to be truthful.) We collected stool, and measured it. That first day I measured 1/3 of a liter. Within a week, he would be losing 1 full liter per day of stool. He developed a rash that covered his body. The nausea and vomiting was unrelenting. The mouth sores prevented him from speaking to his own mother. And then the worst begins to happen. Mucositis (swelling and irritation of the mucous membrane) occurs from the mouth to the anus. His intestines began to slough away.
His intestines began to Slough. Away.
Can you imagine - going to the bathroom - with increasing abdominal pain, and turning around and seeing that there were intestines in your toilet? With blood spatters, everywhere?
This is not an exaggeration. On a separate patient, I remember having to call a GI specialist, and asking them to come and examine a piece of intestine that I had just put in a specimen cup, pulled from the toilet.
You think Ebola's bad? Try rejecting a bone marrow transplant.
His skin turned yellow as he developed GVHD (graft versus host disease - the technical name for rejecting a transplant) of the liver. He developed ascites, his abdomen looked like he was 9 months pregnant.
And he suffered. And suffered. And suffered. I watched this man suffer for 100 days. Until, finally, Jesus gave him relief.
And his mother developed the same disease later. And died of a fungal infection to her heart. Another terrible risk of having a MUD transplant. I took care of her, too.
I have seen a patient - my most humble, blessed patient - watch the blood pressure machine as his blood pressure dropped from 110/60 to 90/50 to 76/36 - all while he waited on his brother to reach his room to say his final goodbyes (and I could still bless out that healthcare worker that let him visualize his death on a dinamap.) His brother made it, in time to say his goodbyes and hold his brothers hand as he took his last breath. Yeah, I cleaned up his intestines, too.
I say this not for sympathy, but for understanding. Every nurse who works with a cancer patient does it because she/he has a calling. A calling to help those who suffer, and either see that patient live to celebrate, or die. And many of the nurses you encounter experience a certain degree of PTSD.
I always thought that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was reserved for soldiers, people who had survived severe attacks, those that had witnessed a murder.
I had no idea I was at risk, too. But after witnessing the most horrible, painful deaths - and watched the families look on as their most beloved were taken from them, I know that I suffer from this. I am so afraid of dying a horrible death. I am so afraid of dying in way that NO ONE deserves - not even a murderer (yes, I've taken care of one of those, too.) Just like these people.
My anxiety has arisen from the care I have given to the sick and dying. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.
But you must take care when dealing with those that know what hell on earth looks like. When you encounter someone who works in healthcare - a doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist, whoever - encounter them with love and kindness. You never know if you're talking to a nurse who has held the hand of a grieving new mother, who has just lost her newborn baby to a heart defect. You don't know if you're talking to a doctor who just told a family that their loved one has weeks to live. You don't know if that respiratory therapist you are having a conversation with worked a code last night and placed a patient on a ventilator. You never know who's experiencing PTSD.
This is all written with a very heavy heart. A heart that has loved patients, and their loved ones with such great depths. A heart has been broken time after time.
And a heart that has been filled with joy. Joy in watching those fight, and survive this terrible disease.
Humbly his,
L.
I have always had a passion for cancer patients. Cancer is an UGLY disease, and no one is immune. NO ONE.
I loved my patients...especially the Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT) patients. They would usually spend about 2-3 months in the hospital, receiving chemotherapy to knock out ALL of their cells (not only the cancer cells - because chemotherapy cannot identify a "good" cell versus a "bad" cell), receive their transplant (either an auto-from their own cells, or an allo -from sibling, or a MUD - an unrelated donor who had matched with them), and then the patient had to recover. Recovery was the most brutal part.
Think about it this way. You have absolutely no immune system left after the harsh chemotherapy. Many hosts of infection enter in your room each day, putting you at great risk, and you have absolutely no idea if the transplant is going to take, or if your body is going to reject it.
Rejection is the horrible part.
And for the faint of heart, you should probably stop reading here.
A patient who receives a MUD transplant is at the greatest risk of rejection. And they are all educated (somewhat) on what may or may not happen during the recovery phase. But what can really happen is something out of a horror story.
My very first patient that I saw reject a transplant stayed in the hospital for over 100 days. The first sign of his rejection was diarrhea - yellow, mushy and seedy. (I have to be truthful.) We collected stool, and measured it. That first day I measured 1/3 of a liter. Within a week, he would be losing 1 full liter per day of stool. He developed a rash that covered his body. The nausea and vomiting was unrelenting. The mouth sores prevented him from speaking to his own mother. And then the worst begins to happen. Mucositis (swelling and irritation of the mucous membrane) occurs from the mouth to the anus. His intestines began to slough away.
His intestines began to Slough. Away.
Can you imagine - going to the bathroom - with increasing abdominal pain, and turning around and seeing that there were intestines in your toilet? With blood spatters, everywhere?
This is not an exaggeration. On a separate patient, I remember having to call a GI specialist, and asking them to come and examine a piece of intestine that I had just put in a specimen cup, pulled from the toilet.
You think Ebola's bad? Try rejecting a bone marrow transplant.
His skin turned yellow as he developed GVHD (graft versus host disease - the technical name for rejecting a transplant) of the liver. He developed ascites, his abdomen looked like he was 9 months pregnant.
And he suffered. And suffered. And suffered. I watched this man suffer for 100 days. Until, finally, Jesus gave him relief.
And his mother developed the same disease later. And died of a fungal infection to her heart. Another terrible risk of having a MUD transplant. I took care of her, too.
I have seen a patient - my most humble, blessed patient - watch the blood pressure machine as his blood pressure dropped from 110/60 to 90/50 to 76/36 - all while he waited on his brother to reach his room to say his final goodbyes (and I could still bless out that healthcare worker that let him visualize his death on a dinamap.) His brother made it, in time to say his goodbyes and hold his brothers hand as he took his last breath. Yeah, I cleaned up his intestines, too.
I say this not for sympathy, but for understanding. Every nurse who works with a cancer patient does it because she/he has a calling. A calling to help those who suffer, and either see that patient live to celebrate, or die. And many of the nurses you encounter experience a certain degree of PTSD.
I always thought that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was reserved for soldiers, people who had survived severe attacks, those that had witnessed a murder.
I had no idea I was at risk, too. But after witnessing the most horrible, painful deaths - and watched the families look on as their most beloved were taken from them, I know that I suffer from this. I am so afraid of dying a horrible death. I am so afraid of dying in way that NO ONE deserves - not even a murderer (yes, I've taken care of one of those, too.) Just like these people.
My anxiety has arisen from the care I have given to the sick and dying. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.
But you must take care when dealing with those that know what hell on earth looks like. When you encounter someone who works in healthcare - a doctor, nurse, respiratory therapist, whoever - encounter them with love and kindness. You never know if you're talking to a nurse who has held the hand of a grieving new mother, who has just lost her newborn baby to a heart defect. You don't know if you're talking to a doctor who just told a family that their loved one has weeks to live. You don't know if that respiratory therapist you are having a conversation with worked a code last night and placed a patient on a ventilator. You never know who's experiencing PTSD.
This is all written with a very heavy heart. A heart that has loved patients, and their loved ones with such great depths. A heart has been broken time after time.
And a heart that has been filled with joy. Joy in watching those fight, and survive this terrible disease.
Humbly his,
L.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Not The Post You Were Looking For
"O Lord, I have come to you for protection,
don't let me be disgraced.
Save me, for you do what is right.
Turn your ear to listen to me;
rescue me quickly.
Be my rock of protection,
a fortress where I will be safe.
You are my rock and my fortress.
For the honor of your name, lead me out of this danger.
Pull me from the trap my enemies set for me,
for I find protection in you alone.
I entrust my spirit into your hand.
rescue me, Lord, for you are a faithful God."
Psalm 31:1-5
Boy, did David know what he was talking about.
This is how I have felt all day. It just hasn't been a good one. I have truly learned what living minute by minute feels like.
I haven't had the strength the past few days to write about what I need to write about. This will suffice for now.
I have this crazy, irrational fear. I am so afraid of having an abdominal aneurysm. I have had CT Scans, sonograms, etc. And nothing was found. I know it's crazy but I am so afraid of dying in such a terrible way, with no dignity.
And I'm afraid of leaving my daughters. What will happen to them when I'm gone? Will Miles remember me? I know Maris won't. How will Sean think of me? And when he remarries, will she love my children like I do?
And God? How will you greet me? I am suffering here. Unanswered prayer after unanswered prayer, I remain faithful. Where are you, God? After three days of devastating thoughts, I feel hopeless. Please help me, God.
David and I feel the same. I feel like part of his prayer is arrogant and self-serving. So is mine. I should be praying for others instead of myself.
Is this HIS way of bringing me closer to Him? To get me back into my Bible? To pray more.
I'm so sorry that it took this, God. But here I am, offering everything I have to You. You know the time when You will take me. All I have is Yours.
Humbly His-
Lauren
don't let me be disgraced.
Save me, for you do what is right.
Turn your ear to listen to me;
rescue me quickly.
Be my rock of protection,
a fortress where I will be safe.
You are my rock and my fortress.
For the honor of your name, lead me out of this danger.
Pull me from the trap my enemies set for me,
for I find protection in you alone.
I entrust my spirit into your hand.
rescue me, Lord, for you are a faithful God."
Psalm 31:1-5
Boy, did David know what he was talking about.
This is how I have felt all day. It just hasn't been a good one. I have truly learned what living minute by minute feels like.
I haven't had the strength the past few days to write about what I need to write about. This will suffice for now.
I have this crazy, irrational fear. I am so afraid of having an abdominal aneurysm. I have had CT Scans, sonograms, etc. And nothing was found. I know it's crazy but I am so afraid of dying in such a terrible way, with no dignity.
And I'm afraid of leaving my daughters. What will happen to them when I'm gone? Will Miles remember me? I know Maris won't. How will Sean think of me? And when he remarries, will she love my children like I do?
And God? How will you greet me? I am suffering here. Unanswered prayer after unanswered prayer, I remain faithful. Where are you, God? After three days of devastating thoughts, I feel hopeless. Please help me, God.
David and I feel the same. I feel like part of his prayer is arrogant and self-serving. So is mine. I should be praying for others instead of myself.
Is this HIS way of bringing me closer to Him? To get me back into my Bible? To pray more.
I'm so sorry that it took this, God. But here I am, offering everything I have to You. You know the time when You will take me. All I have is Yours.
Humbly His-
Lauren
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Treading Lightly
I'm nervous about tomorrow's post. The discussion topic set off a huge tearfest during my last session with my life coach, so I know it's important enough to discuss it in a Blog about my anxieties and fears...and how I'm dealing with them. Tonight, I just felt like I would describe my first "major" panic attack, in preparation for tomorrow.
I had always been a nervous child. For some strange reason, I feared throwing up. When my parents would take us out to eat, I would sit in the car while everyone else enjoyed dinner in the restaurant. I remember my dad pulling the car over one night, after I had sat in while they ate, and he pulled me out. I was crying - saying I just didn't want to live anymore (I was just a child). I was too scared. And he calmed me down (in his own way.)
We've decided that it is my "loss of control." You can ask my friends, when I get nervous, I start pulling at my ear or I touch my collar bone/neck. It's a weird reaction.
I had enormous separation anxiety. When my parents would drop me off at school, it felt like someone had died. Seriously. I was so afraid I would never see them again.
My heart has never been a strong one.
I was driving home from a night shift at Emory. Home means Augusta, and I had just finished moving the rest of my things out of my apartment in Atlanta that morning. I was finally moving back to Augusta to get married and start a new life.
The excitement was real, but I was exhausted. Exhausted from a night of taking care of cancer patients (more on this, tomorrow).
My fiancé and I stopped to get breakfast, and something didn't feel right. And that feeling set off a series of terrible, intrusive thoughts. I got back in my car alone to make the rest of the trip home to Augusta. I began having trouble breathing. My lips started tingling and my fingers went numb. My heart began racing. I KNEW I was dying. I was having a heart attack. I called my fiancé and told him how I felt. He reassured me that I was fine, and told me to just keep driving. But I couldn't. I couldn't drive any longer. My breathing had become short, labored breaths, and my focus was scattered. I'm not even sure I knew where I was or what I was doing at that point.
I pulled over and called 911.
My fiancé was not happy (not the first disappointment my anxiety had caused, and for sure would not be the last). I didn't care. I was so thankful to see those lights and hear that siren from the ambulance because I did not want to die on the side of I-20.
The ambulance pulled in front of me about 3 minutes after calling and I wobbled out of my car. I'm sure I looked like a terrible mess. The paramedics (thank GOD for them) pulled me into the ambulance and hooked me up to a heart monitor. My heart was beating 165 beats per minute (normal rate is 60 - 100 bpm). They recommended I get to the hospital immediately.
Again - I knew I was dying.
All I remember about the ride to the hospital was praying that I would not die. And how hot it was. It was SO hot.
The paramedics started an IV, and gave me anti-nausea medication and a sedative. I arrived shortly at this small hospital in the middle of nowhere, and a doctor came and examined me immediately. I began to calm down. He questioned me about using cocaine, and I remember being so humiliated that I was being asked that question. Of course I don't use cocaine! He drug tested me anyway.
I passed.
He looked at my EKG and kept me on the monitor a bit longer. My heart rate dropped to 85 bpm.
The conclusion - a Panic Attack.
A panic attack? That's crazy, I thought. I was really dying. How could I "just" be having a panic attack?!?
Looking back on this day brings me great sadness. The fear and terror one experiences when they have a panic attack is unexplainable. Unless you have had one, you will NEVER understand what a panic attack is like. You may think you do....but trust me - you don't. And I lost so much that day. I lost my strength, I lost my senses, I lost all control.
I still don't understand what triggered that panic attack. But I think I'm getting closer.
More tomorrow.
Humbly His-
L.
I had always been a nervous child. For some strange reason, I feared throwing up. When my parents would take us out to eat, I would sit in the car while everyone else enjoyed dinner in the restaurant. I remember my dad pulling the car over one night, after I had sat in while they ate, and he pulled me out. I was crying - saying I just didn't want to live anymore (I was just a child). I was too scared. And he calmed me down (in his own way.)
We've decided that it is my "loss of control." You can ask my friends, when I get nervous, I start pulling at my ear or I touch my collar bone/neck. It's a weird reaction.
I had enormous separation anxiety. When my parents would drop me off at school, it felt like someone had died. Seriously. I was so afraid I would never see them again.
My heart has never been a strong one.
I was driving home from a night shift at Emory. Home means Augusta, and I had just finished moving the rest of my things out of my apartment in Atlanta that morning. I was finally moving back to Augusta to get married and start a new life.
The excitement was real, but I was exhausted. Exhausted from a night of taking care of cancer patients (more on this, tomorrow).
My fiancé and I stopped to get breakfast, and something didn't feel right. And that feeling set off a series of terrible, intrusive thoughts. I got back in my car alone to make the rest of the trip home to Augusta. I began having trouble breathing. My lips started tingling and my fingers went numb. My heart began racing. I KNEW I was dying. I was having a heart attack. I called my fiancé and told him how I felt. He reassured me that I was fine, and told me to just keep driving. But I couldn't. I couldn't drive any longer. My breathing had become short, labored breaths, and my focus was scattered. I'm not even sure I knew where I was or what I was doing at that point.
I pulled over and called 911.
My fiancé was not happy (not the first disappointment my anxiety had caused, and for sure would not be the last). I didn't care. I was so thankful to see those lights and hear that siren from the ambulance because I did not want to die on the side of I-20.
The ambulance pulled in front of me about 3 minutes after calling and I wobbled out of my car. I'm sure I looked like a terrible mess. The paramedics (thank GOD for them) pulled me into the ambulance and hooked me up to a heart monitor. My heart was beating 165 beats per minute (normal rate is 60 - 100 bpm). They recommended I get to the hospital immediately.
Again - I knew I was dying.
All I remember about the ride to the hospital was praying that I would not die. And how hot it was. It was SO hot.
The paramedics started an IV, and gave me anti-nausea medication and a sedative. I arrived shortly at this small hospital in the middle of nowhere, and a doctor came and examined me immediately. I began to calm down. He questioned me about using cocaine, and I remember being so humiliated that I was being asked that question. Of course I don't use cocaine! He drug tested me anyway.
I passed.
He looked at my EKG and kept me on the monitor a bit longer. My heart rate dropped to 85 bpm.
The conclusion - a Panic Attack.
A panic attack? That's crazy, I thought. I was really dying. How could I "just" be having a panic attack?!?
Looking back on this day brings me great sadness. The fear and terror one experiences when they have a panic attack is unexplainable. Unless you have had one, you will NEVER understand what a panic attack is like. You may think you do....but trust me - you don't. And I lost so much that day. I lost my strength, I lost my senses, I lost all control.
I still don't understand what triggered that panic attack. But I think I'm getting closer.
More tomorrow.
Humbly His-
L.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
My Girls (A Happy Blog!)
"God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him
for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.
God blesses those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
God blesses those who are humble,
for they will inherit the earth.
God blesses those who hunger and thirst for justice,
for they will be satisfied.
God blesses those who are merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
God blesses those whose hearts are pure,
for they will see God.
God blesses those who work for peace,
for they will be called the children of God.
God blesses those who are persecuted for doing right,
for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs." - Jesus
(Matthew 5:3-10)
If there is any part of the Bible I want my children to know, it is the Sermon on the Mount. God gives us very clear, strict instruction on how we should live our lives. His words are so pure and comforting.
My girls are 3 and 8 months. They are beautiful, inside and out. And very different. Miles (the oldest) is very intelligent, loves to talk to everyone (especially our preacher) and has absolutely NO fear whatsoever. I love her free spirit. She is happy, and I am very humbled by her position in my life. I want her to know that the Kingdom of Heaven can be hers if she will follow Jesus. We talk about Him everyday. She knows that Jesus will protect her from the storms and that He lives in her heart.
Maris (the youngest) is still very young. But not young enough to let us know that she has a temper! And I love THAT about her. I am sure she will be very vocal as she gets older. When Miles goes away for a few days, there is a noticeable sadness within Maris. And when Miles returns, Maris does not stop smiling and laughing. Life is good again when Miles comes home!
I imagine Maris' exhilaration when she sees Miles for the first time in a couple of days, is how we will react when we see the face of God everyday in Heaven. Pure delight. We will dance. We will sing. We will praise His name.
For now, I will read this sermon to my daughters as they grow older, and let them know that Jesus had a purpose for teaching the Beatitudes. I will pray, that even though they may be persecuted, they will still follow His rules. They are a Code of Ethics for us to live by as we navigate life. And our great reward is eternal joy, in Heaven.
Humbly His -
L.
for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.
God blesses those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
God blesses those who are humble,
for they will inherit the earth.
God blesses those who hunger and thirst for justice,
for they will be satisfied.
God blesses those who are merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
God blesses those whose hearts are pure,
for they will see God.
God blesses those who work for peace,
for they will be called the children of God.
God blesses those who are persecuted for doing right,
for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs." - Jesus
(Matthew 5:3-10)
If there is any part of the Bible I want my children to know, it is the Sermon on the Mount. God gives us very clear, strict instruction on how we should live our lives. His words are so pure and comforting.
My girls are 3 and 8 months. They are beautiful, inside and out. And very different. Miles (the oldest) is very intelligent, loves to talk to everyone (especially our preacher) and has absolutely NO fear whatsoever. I love her free spirit. She is happy, and I am very humbled by her position in my life. I want her to know that the Kingdom of Heaven can be hers if she will follow Jesus. We talk about Him everyday. She knows that Jesus will protect her from the storms and that He lives in her heart.
Maris (the youngest) is still very young. But not young enough to let us know that she has a temper! And I love THAT about her. I am sure she will be very vocal as she gets older. When Miles goes away for a few days, there is a noticeable sadness within Maris. And when Miles returns, Maris does not stop smiling and laughing. Life is good again when Miles comes home!
I imagine Maris' exhilaration when she sees Miles for the first time in a couple of days, is how we will react when we see the face of God everyday in Heaven. Pure delight. We will dance. We will sing. We will praise His name.
For now, I will read this sermon to my daughters as they grow older, and let them know that Jesus had a purpose for teaching the Beatitudes. I will pray, that even though they may be persecuted, they will still follow His rules. They are a Code of Ethics for us to live by as we navigate life. And our great reward is eternal joy, in Heaven.
Humbly His -
L.
Friday, August 1, 2014
The Bathroom Floor (Because I Will Never Forget that Night)
I crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom. I laid on the cold, dark floor in fetal position, begging God to take it way. I reached out and could feel the pieces of broken tile under me. I begged that floor to cave in. To swallow me whole. My entire world was crumbling.
I had a brand new baby in the room in between, and didn't want to wake her. But I shook violently. I was so very scared. So scared.
"What kind of mother are you, Lauren? What mother can't get it together. What kind of mother wakes up in the middle of the night, crawls out of the bed and lays on the bathroom floor? What kind of wife can't get it together for her husband? What kind of daughter can't get it together for her parents?"
Hello, Satan.
And I begged God to take it away. He didn't. Three years later, it's still here.
And I struggle today.
I imagine Jesus at the Garden of Gethsemane. I imagine Him on His hands and knees shaking violently. Knowing He was about to be crucified. But for what? And he begged God to take it away from Him. And God didn't.
Please don't think I'm comparing myself to Jesus, because that's like comparing a beautiful, shiny nutritious apple to a rotten, moldy potato with worms devouring the inside.
One thing of the many things Jesus had, that I lack, is perspective. I didn't have perspective on that cold, black and white tile. Jesus looked out over Jerusalem, with bloody sweat pouring down his face, and saw people, a city, a world, a UNIVERSE, that He had been sent to save. He had perspective. The cross was the thorn in His flesh, but it was one He knew He had to bear. Can you imagine the suffering?
And He was content with the Spirit's will. Why do I continue to fight God's will? Why do I try to fight my anxiety? Why can I not just let it go, let it fall through me. Jesus was human on earth, so am I. But maybe it's not meant to fall through me.
And so I'm trying to gain perspective. Maybe God has other plans. I pray these plans are to bring others to Him. I pray that I have so much more time left to do just that. I believe that this is God's plan for my life.
Please don't judge me for this.
Humbly giving it to Him-
L
I had a brand new baby in the room in between, and didn't want to wake her. But I shook violently. I was so very scared. So scared.
"What kind of mother are you, Lauren? What mother can't get it together. What kind of mother wakes up in the middle of the night, crawls out of the bed and lays on the bathroom floor? What kind of wife can't get it together for her husband? What kind of daughter can't get it together for her parents?"
Hello, Satan.
And I begged God to take it away. He didn't. Three years later, it's still here.
And I struggle today.
I imagine Jesus at the Garden of Gethsemane. I imagine Him on His hands and knees shaking violently. Knowing He was about to be crucified. But for what? And he begged God to take it away from Him. And God didn't.
Please don't think I'm comparing myself to Jesus, because that's like comparing a beautiful, shiny nutritious apple to a rotten, moldy potato with worms devouring the inside.
One thing of the many things Jesus had, that I lack, is perspective. I didn't have perspective on that cold, black and white tile. Jesus looked out over Jerusalem, with bloody sweat pouring down his face, and saw people, a city, a world, a UNIVERSE, that He had been sent to save. He had perspective. The cross was the thorn in His flesh, but it was one He knew He had to bear. Can you imagine the suffering?
And He was content with the Spirit's will. Why do I continue to fight God's will? Why do I try to fight my anxiety? Why can I not just let it go, let it fall through me. Jesus was human on earth, so am I. But maybe it's not meant to fall through me.
And so I'm trying to gain perspective. Maybe God has other plans. I pray these plans are to bring others to Him. I pray that I have so much more time left to do just that. I believe that this is God's plan for my life.
Please don't judge me for this.
Humbly giving it to Him-
L
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